


Palabras de Amor

by Jubalii



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: 1920s, Alternate Universe, Ernesto is Not Murder-y, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Romance, F/M, Héctor is a Sweet Guy, Imelda is Still Shoe Queen, Muteness, The Twins Are... the Twins, Toymaker!AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-23
Updated: 2018-05-23
Packaged: 2019-05-10 10:45:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14735489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jubalii/pseuds/Jubalii
Summary: Despite his condition, Héctor Rivera never seems to find himself at a loss for words. However, when a young woman opens a shoe shop down the street from his juguetería, he finds himself speechless for the first time. She's beautiful, talented, intelligent, and far beyond anyone he's ever met... but without words, how on earth can he get her attention?[based on an AU idea by usuallymassivegalaxy on Tumblr]





	Palabras de Amor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **As of 6/2, Chapter 1 has been changed and updated. Please reread to avoid any confusion.**

“ _Vamonos_ , Héctor. You can’t be a coward now.”

Ernesto de la Cruz had learned a long time ago that the best way to fly under the radar was to act the part. If a vendor saw a ragtag orphan nervously creeping towards an unwatched stall, the alarm would be raised in no time. So he sauntered through the market, his hands tucked demurely against the small of his back. Acting as though he were expected somewhere, he kept his eyes locked on a distant destination, paying no attention to the stalls lining either side of the marketplace. His unbuttoned shirt flapped around his chest, exposing the sparse fuzz starting to gather. He was twelve, one of the big boys at the orphanage: far too old to be pilfering fruit for sport.

“I’m no coward.” Héctor jogged behind him, pouting as he pushed the long hair out of his eyes. He was due for a haircut, his bangs curling against the humidity and sticking wetly to his broad forehead. His clothing was loose, castoffs from the bigger boys that he hadn’t had time to grow into yet. His pants were barely hanging onto his hips; he kept having to stop and hitch them higher, which only made him lag behind. An eight-year-old could only go so fast, but the thought of an afternoon snack had him determined to keep up with his best friend.

“Hurry.” Ernesto grinned, running his tongue along the back of his lower teeth. They were in luck; the fruit stall was unmanned, its balding owner chatting to another vendor in the shade of an overhang. His back was to his stand, which was the perfect time to strike. “Now, do what I do.”

He forced himself to keep an even gait, humming an inconspicuous little tune. As he passed the stall, he nabbed two oranges without breaking stride. Héctor hurried to follow, but his greed won out over self-preservation. When Ernesto turned back to look, the boy was stuffing his trouser pockets. They bulged with the fruit, packed to the brim.  

“No, Héctor!” he hissed, waving at him to come on. Héctor stared blankly, one hand slowly coming out of his pocket to automatically reach for another orange. Ernesto shook his head vehemently, gesturing that they should go.

Before Héctor could move, the vendor nodded his goodbye to the storeowner and turned. His eyes landed first on Ernesto, red-handed with an orange in each fist. Then he looked at Héctor, whose eyes were wide as dinner plates. Héctor jerked his hand away from the orange, leaving it on the stall as he smiled nervously.

The man’s eyes bugged, his hand rising to point and mouth falling open. Ernesto didn’t wait for the first shriek, knowing from prior experience that by then, running would be too late. Turning on his heel, he stumbled and caught himself on the packed earth; he began to run, losing no time as the vendor screamed in a high-pitched wail.

“Stop those boys! Thieves!”

Ernesto reached out long enough to grab Héctor’s hand, tugging him along a few steps before leaving him to make out on his own. Héctor was like a puppy, tripping over his own feet to follow wherever he went. As long as he kept his wits about him and didn’t panic, neither one of them would be in any danger of getting caught.

He couldn’t hear Héctor behind him, but the vendor cursed and stomped as he gave chase. There was a sudden breeze on the back of his neck and he ducked, feeling fingers grabbing at the air above his head. Luckily the other vendors were busy, turning to see the commotion but too late to offer their assistance no matter how loudly the fruit seller screamed. Still, if he wanted to make a clean getaway, he needed wide open space.

He veered, diving between two stalls and clutching his loot tightly in his fists. If he could make it to the plaza, he’d be able to pick up enough speed to get away from the vendor. Then he could meet up with Héctor and go to the river bottoms, where the water was cold and the shade plentiful. The vendor wouldn’t chase them that far for a handful of oranges, not when he had an entire stall of produce to look after. They could laugh about it as they peeled their snack, kicking their feet in the shallows.

The very thought, along with the adrenaline, had a bubble of laughter choking him before it burst from his mouth in a flurry of breathless sounds. His bare feet slapped the dusty earth as he ran, soles burning as he moved from dirt to the baked cobblestones of the plaza. It was empty, the pavilion deserted in the midday heat. No one was out unless they had to be, which made it all the easier for him. He picked up speed, ignoring the pain in his heels as he flew over stone and towards the town gates.

“I said stop!”

 _Yeah, right_! His eyes darted from opening to opening, trying to decide which street would be best to take. A group of laborers entered the other side of the plaza, returning slowly from their midday meal; they stopped to look at him, and he could see the questions forming on their lips even from as far away as he was. He picked the farthest street from them and sprinted towards it, the oranges heavy in his hands. He tightened his grip, doubling down as he careened around a parked cart.

He heard the vendor shouting to the laborers, but the shrill voice was drowned by the sound of his heart pounding in his ears. He prayed that there was nothing blocking the street ahead. He couldn’t jump over any obstacles with his hands full of oranges, and his pants were too tight to stuff them into his pockets the way Héctor had. He’d been needing new pants for months now, but he had to wait for another child to grow out of his pair before he could have better ones. Only the biggest children received new clothes, because they had less risk of growing out of them too soon.

“Nesto!” Héctor waved to him from a side street, waiting until he caught up before matching pace. He was only a few inches shorter than Ernesto, and his legs were _longer_ than the older boy’s. It was funny to see him running for all he was worth, his skinny arms pumping and pants bouncing with the weight of his stolen fruit.

“Go faster, Héctor!” Ernesto laughed, urging him forward with a hand between his shoulder blades. Orphans were orphans in a vendor’s eyes, all alike to one another and, in a perfect world, only let out of the orphanage for Mass. It was only if they were caught that they’d get into trouble. Between the two of them, it was better if _he_ was caught; the moment they had their hands on Héctor, all the fight would go out of the boy. He’d be handed over like a suckling pig, while Ernesto could at least hold his own in a brawl with a middle-aged man… so long as the laborers didn’t join in.

“Hey!”

“ _Ni_ _ñ_ _os_ , stop!”

“Come back here!”

 _Damn_! The laborers—at least a few—had joined the vendor for the chase. He hissed under his breath, hoping that they’d give up sooner rather than later. He had good endurance, but how long could Héctor run on his scrawny legs? They were more like chicken’s legs, good for nothing but waddling around and trying to outrun a cook. Unfortunately, most of the time the cook was the winner; from the sounds of it, _their_ chasers were gaining fast.

Ernesto shepherded Héctor down a side street, trying to turn over the map of the town in his head. They were veering too far off course; to get lost in town was a death sentence, at least where getting caught was concerned. He turned them again, breathing a sigh of relief when he found the road curved upwards, cresting in a smooth slope. From that vantage point, he’d be able to get them on track again just from a quick glance around the landscape.

“The hill, now!” Héctor didn’t need to be told twice, nodding obediently. He grinned as he began to outpace Ernesto, the latter looking for something that could slow down their would-be captors. As they continued up the hill, he could see that the summit was the construction site for a new house. The scaffolding was still up, its thin wooden planks leading to the half-shingled roof and metal beams resting against the plastered wall of the house.

“Héctor!” An idea began to unfold in the back of his mind. Héctor slowed, turning back to look at him. “The scaffold! Climb the roof to the other side, go!” If they could hop over the roof and land on the next street, it would take the adults too long to find a way around. It was almost _too_ easy, and all it entailed was something as simple as shimmying up a tree at the river. He hazarded a glance behind, seeing the laborers just turning the corner at the end of the street. The vendor panted along behind them, his face tomato red.

“Go, Héctor! Faster!” Héctor nodded again, coughing in short bursts around heaving gasps for air. He stalled and then, ducking his head, valiantly tried to go even faster. He was always able to outpace him when they were running, but now Ernesto fell back, giving him the first jump at the scaffold. If he could hold them off long enough for Héctor to get over the roof, the rest would be a piece of cake. How, though, could he achieve it without being overpowered? Did he dare to sacrifice one of his oranges? Or maybe he could fake them out, pretend to run down another street and double back at the last minute?

“Héctor, come _on_! You have to go as fast as you can! Jump for it!”

A breathless cackle sputtered from his lips when he saw Héctor running like a madman. His feet never seemed to touch the ground, pants billowing from both extra fabric and the oranges. He glanced up long enough to gage his jump and then his thin body curved like a willow branch, springing up as he made a flying leap for the lowest metal rung of the scaffold. Ernesto pumped his arm in a triumphant cheer, squeezing the orange in his fist; he chanced another look back at the men, his own curiosity too much to resist. He had to see what they thought of being bested by two little boys.

“ _Chamaco_ , no!” One of the laborers, a stocky man with a hat, put his hands to his head in dismay. Ernesto jeered, thinking it to be anger at being outsmarted, only for the expression to fall when the other laborers stopped in their tracks. They weren’t chasing anymore… they were watching.

“¡ _Santa Mar_ _í_ _a_!”

“Oh, merciful saints—stop, boy!”

Their shouts were almost eerie, not at all the shouts of angry men. They were staring with looks of abject horror, their faces pale and the whites of their eyes visible even from where he stood halfway up the hill. The vendor had his hands over his mouth, frozen to the spot; he could see the marks on his face from where his nails were digging into the flesh of his jaw. He turned back, looking up the hill to where Héctor was.

He’d managed to reach the first rung, his legs still peddling in the air as his feet searched for the wooden planks that served as the scaffold’s walkways. He was horizontal, the force of his leap enough that his body kept moving even when his hands had stopped. He swung, his own weight plus the oranges enough to send him nearly upside down. He was almost high enough that he could look back down the hill and see them, the world turned over on its head from his point of view.

But what he couldn’t see was the scaffold, leaning away from the wall. With a thunderous crack it tottered, off-balance. As Ernesto looked up, he could see what he’d been blind to before. Now that it moved, he noticed that the scaffold wasn’t anchored to the wall the way he thought it would be. It was already lopsided, sitting unevenly on the hill and more leaning than resting against the half-finished house. The supplies stacked on the upper levels had held it down against the light morning breeze, and should have been enough to keep it level.

Of course no one had been counting on a young boy, weighed down with oranges, to throw his entire weight onto the opposite side.

Héctor must have felt the structure move around him, or heard its rusty scream as it scraped the underside of the metal shingles. His face twisted comically, a puzzle working over his features. Ernesto staggered, a sharp pain in his stomach as poignant as if he’d been socked. It stole everything from him: breath, voice, strength. Only panic was left behind, flavored with comprehension. He _knew_ what was going to happen, and he _knew_ that he couldn’t move fast enough to stop it from happening. He could see it as clearly as anything, like a picture in the fancy frames traveling peddlers kept in their wagons.

In that instant, the world seemed to slow to a crawl. The oranges left his hands, but it took them weeks to hit the earth and begin their inevitable roll to the bottom of the hill. He took back everything he’d ever said about Héctor. Every taunt, every eye roll, every scoff. Every time he’d wished that Héctor didn’t exist, just because he was being an annoying kid. All the times he said he hated him, all the times he put him in a headlock for being too clingy.

Even though he’d said it, done it, didn’t mean he meant it. Héctor was his best friend, his _hermano_ , his makeshift family. He’d do anything for him, even if it meant getting caught by those men: take a beating, be locked in the closet… he’d even agree to never leave the orphanage again. Anything, just as long as what was about to happen _didn’t_ happen. Their eyes met, blind terror against blatant confusion. Héctor’s lips moved, syllables forming easily. _Ernes—_

And then he was gone.  

The scaffold hit the ground with an awful sound, a _thud_ of metal meeting earth, as if there wasn’t a body between them at all. A cloud of dust spiraled into the air, thick wooden beams and the supplies from the upper stories scattering to the ground in a cataclysm of noise. He named them as he watched them fall, a numbness spreading through him as he counted, a child learning his first words: _brick, stone, wood, iron._ Things that were heavy, that hurt. He could do nothing but stand there, watching as the tumult filled him from the toes up, ringing in his ears with a crashing, crunching, _crushing—_

Another sound was added:  a scratchy, feeble wail that cracked and sputtered like kindling in a bake oven. It took him too long to realize that sound came from his own chest, his lungs expanding without getting oxygen as his cry became a scream.

“ _H_ _é_ _ctor_!” He was running, without the conscious decision to run. He couldn’t feel his body, his feet foreign as he somehow made it up the hill and to the rubble. He choked on the dust, hacking and tearing up as he picked his way across split, splintered beams. He didn’t know where Héctor was, but he had to move this stuff out of the way; Héctor couldn’t breathe when the air was really sandy. He had to get rid of all this junk so that Héctor could move to fresh air, so that he could breathe in and laugh like he always did, ignorant of how dangerous the situation was. He had to laugh so that Ernesto could yell at him, so that everything would be normal again.

The metal cut his hands, warm blood pooling in his palms and making his fingers slippery. He didn’t care, wiping them again and again on his too-small pants before reaching for more sharp rocks, more shingles, more jagged stakes of wood that stuck up all around at odd angles. He threw them behind him, not caring if they rolled down the hill. He and Héctor would pick them all back up, stack them neatly as an apology to the workers. They’d do that, and maybe the vendor wouldn’t be so angry about the oranges. They were sure to be bruised after Héctor landed on them. Maybe the vendor wouldn’t be mad if they apologized.

His mouth was moving, but the sounds that came out made no sense. He thought that he was speaking words, but the syllables were all meaningless; it was mindless babbling to keep himself busy as he worked, a boy’s sea shanty. His face was wet, his eyes still blurry and itching even now that the dust was settling. He wiped at his cheek with one bloody hand, tasting gritty salt and iron when he licked his lips. Were they real tears? He hoped not; the last thing he needed was Héctor calling _him_ a baby.

His fingernails dug into the stone around him, bending and splitting as he scratched in vain at the heavier pieces. His middle fingernail broke off and he bit back a sharp cry, kicking at the rock before seeing something beside it. It took a moment to recognize, covered in dust; it was one of the metal support beams from the scaffold. He grabbed it, intending to lift the entire scaffold up and move it to the side. It was too heavy, unwilling to budge no matter how much of an effort he put towards lifting it. He screamed his frustration, nearly sitting as he pulled with all his strength, arms slowly wrenching from their sockets. 

“Someone call for the doctor!”

Between blinks he was surrounded, men throwing him out of the way as they began digging through the rubble. He landed on his back, knocking the breath out of his lungs and coughing violently. He sat up, seeing the vendor take his place as the men began slowly lifting one corner of the scaffolding. He clambered to his feet, palms aching and stomach flipping. He tried to worm his way back into their circle, crawling between their legs as he reached for another piece of wood, another stone. He had to help. He had to.

“ _Por dios_ , get this kid outta here!” Again he was lifted and tossed, landing on the fringes of their group. He was on his feet in an instant, head swimming and bile rising in his throat. _Gotta help… gotta get H_ _é_ _ctor_ … _gotta—_

“Wait a minute, boy.” A strong arm caught him by the middle, lifting him up easily. It was the laborer who had screamed, the one with the hat. The broad chest was against his spine, one arm tucking his legs around his waist. The man held him like a toddler, supporting his rear and pinning his arms as he began to walk down the hill.

“No, no—” Ernesto wiggled, trying to fight his way out of the tight hold. Where was this man taking him? “Let me go! I have to—I have to find my friend!”

“No, son.” He hadn’t been called son in a long time. The word brought back hazy memories of his papá: a whiff of tobacco drowned by the stench of sickness, bloodstained handkerchiefs and wasted limbs, rotten teeth twisted in a death grin. This man might be someone’s papá, too. The way he held him seemed familiar.

“I have to see Héctor!” he tried again, shoving at the chest for all he was worth. It was like shoving against a boulder, unmoving and unmovable. “I want to see Héctor!” The man redoubled his grip, one hand covering his eyes. The world was red-dark, slats of white light filtering between his fingers.

“No, you don’t.” Panicked, Ernesto froze. He couldn’t see anything. He couldn’t hear Héctor. He could only hear the man’s ragged breathing, his own rapid pulse, the murmur of a crowd as they began to gather. “You don’t want to see, son. Don’t look.”

“Héctor!” He had to find him, to wake him up. He was just napping, that’s all. He was napping and he was going to be coughing from the dust, but they’d still have time to go to the river. Everything was okay, everything would be okay. “Héctor!” He drew in a breath, releasing it in one final, jarring scream.

The acrid smell of crushed oranges lay heavy on his tongue.

* * *

They’d taken Héctor to the matron’s quarters, where the adults could work on him without having to worry about children being underfoot. They’d carted him into the orphanage in a group, hiding his body from prying eyes and then leaving just as soon as their job was done. The surgeon had been following through the door, his aide _tip-tapping_ in her white heels at the end of the procession with the surgical bag. 

Ernesto had tried to go into the room, but he’d been turned away by the matron. He’d begged and been denied; he persisted, clinging first to the matron’s skirts and then to anyone entering or exiting the room. He pleaded until the words became meaningless, his voice raw with tears. One of the sisters eventually hauled him to his feet, dragging him down the hall and stuffing him inside the punishment closet in a fit of exasperation.

He cowered there in the pitch darkness, utterly alone. Terrified, he sobbed until his voice gave way to helpless whimpers. He was dirty, hot and tired. No one would tell him if Héctor was alive or not. He wasn’t even able to sit down in the enclosed space, the walls pressing in on him. His eyes played tricks on him in the dark, ghoulish faces sneering at him from every side. He covered his eyes with his hands, biting his lip until he tasted blood. It was only when he had to use the necessary that he realized how long he’d been stuck there. He had been standing still long enough that his legs ached fiercely, the tears dried and crusty on his cheeks and chin. He sniffled, squeezing his legs together; it would do no good to scream or shout. No one would let him out until they were good and ready.

“Who’s—oh, look at you!” The door open and he blinked against the sudden light, his eyes blinded after standing so long in the dark. “They’ve quite forgotten you, haven’t they?” It was Irene, one of the scullery maids. She clucked under her breath, drawing him out of the closet. He pressed himself against her, drowning in the scent of lye and yeast that came off her apron. If he’d had the strength to cry, he’d have sobbed again in relief. “And no surprise, either, with what’s been going on.”

“Héctor—” he managed to croak, scrubbing in vain at his snotty, bedraggled face. Irene patted him on the head in her usual detached manner; he knew she meant to be kind, but she was always too rushed to offer any real affection.

“Here. Supper’s well over, but you can take this.” She pressed a hunk of bread—an evening snack she’d nabbed from the pantry, no doubt— and patted him once more before shoving him away gently. “My,” she sighed, shaking her head at the sight of him. “It’s not right, seeing you without your shadow.” A strange look passed over her face, and she opened her mouth before shutting it again. “Alright, off with you, before they put you back in there for missing your prayers.”

He went, shoving the bread into his dry mouth and promptly choking on it. He stopped long enough to get some water from the communal pail, forcing himself to swallow as much of the scanty meal as possible. Then, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he stole back towards the matron’s quarters on the other end of the orphanage. The halls were empty, the sisters presiding over the bedtime routine. The staff that hadn’t gone home were retiring to their own part of the asylum, leaving him free to wander at his leisure. On any other occasion, he would have cherished this sort of freedom. Now, there was no joy in it at all.

 “…apoplexy, in my professional opinion.” There was no time to think, but if he was good at anything it was hiding on short notice. He ducked into the empty sitting room; it was never used, unless there was a family come to adopt a child. He was, for the moment, safe from sight. He hunkered against the dripstone, his knees to his chest as he used the shadows of the room to his advantage.

He froze when the matron appeared in the entryway, her eyes automatically scanning the room as she passed. Her face was worn, her frown more pronounced than usual. She was escorting the surgeon and his aide to the front entrance. Did this mean the surgeon was through? He could see Héctor now?

“Apoplexy?” That was too large a word for him, but by the matron’s gasp it couldn’t mean anything good. She sounded exhausted. “So… it’s certain, then? He will die.” His heart froze midbeat, a chilly hand squeezing it tight. His breath caught in his throat, nails digging into his knees though his trousers. _Die?_ Of course Héctor wouldn’t die. He was… he was good and healthy, just like him! One little case of apoplexy wouldn’t kill… it _couldn’t_ —

“Señora, is anything ever certain in the world of medicine?” He could see the surgeon’s profile through the entryway, his crinkled eyes both shrewd and tired behind his spectacles. “It will depend on the amount of blood. If enough is produced, his apoplectic brain will drown and he will die. However, I have read cases where the swelling recedes, and the victim lives. Of course… in that case….”  

“What can we do?” the matron asked. “Is there anything to be done?”

“Pray,” the surgeon replied bluntly. “Pray that God spares his soul.” There was a moment of silence, and then the surgeon cleared his throat. “I will return tomorrow afternoon,” he said in an altogether different tone. “Send for me if there’s any change.”

“Of course. Let me show to you to the door—”

Ernesto rested his head on his arms, shivering as he huddled against the wall. Héctor could die, and it was all his fault. He was the one to suggest the oranges. Héctor would have never stolen them if he hadn’t goaded him about being a coward. And jumping the scaffold was his idea, too. Héctor wouldn’t have been able to think of that. Why hadn’t he gone first, to make sure it was safe? He should’ve went first. It should’ve been him lying in the matron’s bed, not Héctor.

_It should have been me._

What was he supposed to do now? If Héctor died, it would be his fault. The laborers would have told the matron everything. He would be a murderer. They’d hang him in the plaza, like they did the outlaw that shot all those ranchers last fall. It would be him jerking in the air, kicking and flipping like a trout on a fishing line. And then, because he’d stolen _and_ murdered, he’d burn forever in the lake of fire. He bit back a whimper at the thought, burrowing his head into the crook of his elbow.  

Murder… a sin that cried to Heaven itself. If Héctor died, it would mean that God had abandoned him. God Himself would be the one to enact the final punishment. What could he do against that? He was only one little boy. He couldn’t appease God!

 _Please,_ he prayed, running his hand through his sweat-dampened locks. _Please don’t let him die. I’ll do anything. I’ll be good forever, I’ll never do a single bad thing again in my life. I promise. Just tell me what you want me to do, and I’ll do it._

_Just don’t let him die._

* * *

Héctor’s first visitor in convalescence was Ernesto de la Cruz.  

It was only fitting, according to the matron. Everyone had been marveling at the marked change in Ernesto. Even she had been surprised to find him changed, seemingly overnight, into an angelic youth. She chalked it up to the incident that left one of her charges at death’s door and the other shaken to the core; seeing Héctor nearly killed before his eyes had put the fear of God in him.

He had become a model orphan, something for the younger children to aspire to. He kept himself neat and tidy, his shirt tucked in and pants cuffed. He no longer skipped class, and never shirked his chores. He was quiet and attentive during church service. In town, he was on his best behavior, and he didn’t try to pick fights with the other children at the orphanage.

Even now he sat quietly in the chair she’d placed for him outside her door, his hands folded in his lap. The old Ernesto would have been chomping at the bit, demanding that the surgeon hurry up. It was an astounding change, almost miraculous.

Of course, she had no way of knowing the vow he’d made the night of the incident, curled up against the paisley wallpaper of the sitting room. He’d promised God that if Héctor lived, he would always be good and do what was needed of him. In his mind, he was only keeping up his end of the bargain.

“Consider it a reward,” the matron had told him when she called him to her quarters. “The sisters have been praising your progress.” She wisely left out the part where Héctor had been asking for his best friend nearly a fortnight. Weakened by the apoplexy, a brain fever had taken hold and left the poor child delirious and weak. It was only recently that the surgeon even considered giving into his whims and allowing a visitor. And now… given the circumstances….

Perhaps only Ernesto would do.

“It is as I thought.” They both looked up at the door opened, the surgeon stepping through. He held a hand to stop Ernesto as he rose, shutting the door behind him before turning to face them. “Señora, you realize that I may only tell you what I know to be truth.”

“Of course, sir.” The matron wrung her hands.

“I don’t know what has caused it. The fever, the swelling, a stroke—it doesn’t matter now. But I fear he will never speak again.”

“Speak?” Ernesto stood, looking between the matron and the surgeon. “W-what do you mean?” The surgeon stared at him a long moment, his thin lips pursed.

“Is this the boy he’s been asking for?” he asked the matron. She nodded. “Come here, my child.” Ernesto came closer, eyes darting nervously between the door, the surgeon, and the hall. “Come closer—that’s it.” He sighed, resting a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Young man, you understand that your friend was very ill? He has been very near death this past month.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You must understand that by all accounts, he _should_ be dead. Only the grace of God has spared him. And yet….” He sighed again. “And yet, his life from here on will be a hard one. That boy will never speak another word.”

“But—”

“Is he senseless?” the matron interrupted.

“No, thank God. He’s got his wits about him.” He paused, one hand on his chin. The other tapped thoughtfully against Ernesto’s scapula. “We are in the twentieth century, and yet we still know so little about the brain. He knows what he wants to say; his mouth forms the letters. The spark of life is in his eyes. And yet, his brain cannot make words. Only sound.” The surgeon shook his head. “It’s been two weeks with no marked change. He’s getting stronger every day. He _is_ getting well again.”

“The trouble is not in his throat?”

“No. At least, I think not. He finishes all his meals?”

“Sí. We’re still feeding him broth, and softer foods, as you ordered.”

“Good, good.” The surgeon frowned pensively. “If the problem was in his throat, I would expect him to complain of having trouble swallowing. And I see no evidence of drooling or labored breathing.”

“How can he complain, if he can’t speak?” Ernesto asked. He felt strange, numb. He’d been wanting to see Héctor, but now… now he felt strange and nauseous. He didn’t know if he really wanted to see him after all. _Don’t say that!_ He scolded himself sharply. _H_ _é_ _ctor_ _is your best friend, and will always be your best friend. You made a vow to God so that he’d live. You owe him a visit._

“I believe you’ll find he has no trouble in getting his point across,” the surgeon assured him wryly. He squeezed his shoulder before patting his back. “I believe this the first patient to argue with me without saying a single word!” he laughed, the sound trailing off into a sober _ahem_. “This will, of course, affect his chances with any family.”

“Of course,” the matron murmured. Ernesto said nothing; the chance of either of them being adopted were never strong to begin with, and diminished more each year. He doubted Héctor would be too distraught. The hand squeezed his shoulder again and he jumped, realizing the surgeon was still speaking to him.

“He’ll need someone to help him,” the old man admitted matter-of-factly. “Especially these first few years. There will be a good deal of frustration at first, as he adjusts. Someone will need to stand strong with him through the tempest.”

As the surgeon spoke, the numbing cloud in his mind parted. Suddenly, he could clearly see what God wanted him to do. Just being good wasn’t enough, not anymore. He had gotten his wish—Héctor was alive. But now his atonement was just beginning. Héctor needed someone to take care of him, to talk for him and protect him from anything that could hurt him. This was his purpose.

“I’ll take care of him,” he assured the surgeon. “I’ll _always_ take care of him.”

* * *

 


End file.
